


can't fight a love like ours

by nowmywatch_begins



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A turn of events changes that, F/M, I'm weak for Robb/Marg please indulge me, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon is mean and pompous and doesn't let anyone in, Jon/Sansa - Freeform, Sansa is tired of his shit but can't do much about it bc he controls her career, The Proposal AU, The Proposal is my favorite movie so obvs I had to make a Jonsa fanfic out of it, This is my first work in this fandom please be gentle with me, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23921662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowmywatch_begins/pseuds/nowmywatch_begins
Summary: “Gentlemen, I understand the predicament we are in. And...” Jon glanced over at Sansa again, willing her to go along with his plan. She stared out the window, oblivious. “And there’s, well, I think there’s something you should know.”Jon paced back cautiously to stand by Sansa’s side. Awkwardly placing his arm around Sansa’s shoulders, he said firmly, “We’re getting married.”Sansa’s shoulders tensed, looking at his hand resting on her arm before turning back to him. “Who is getting married?” she asked, confusion slowing the words like molasses.“We are,” he answered, pasting a grin on his face and smiling toothily at her, shooting a meaningful look at the men seated in front of them. Sansa looked mildly alarmed at the action. “You and I are getting married.”Jon watched carefully as Sansa’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly. Finally, voice trembling, she hesitantly said, “We are. Getting married.”They both looked to Mormont and Aemon, who were watching the exchange wordlessly. Finally, Aemon pointed at the two of them and said, “Isn’t she your secretary?”The Proposal AU.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 48
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello angel faces, and thank you so much for giving this story a chance! This is my first GOT fanfic. I adore Jonsa and I adore the movie The Proposal, so this was created. Hope you enjoy!

Sansa woke with a gasp to the sound of her blaring alarm.

Shooting upright in a blind panic, she grappled with the sheets twisted around her legs before falling out of bed and clawing her way to the screaming alarm clock sitting on her nightstand. 8:05 a.m. “Shit!” Sansa groaned, heaving herself off the floor to run to her closet.

Rifling through her closet, Sansa hurriedly buttoned on a lavender blouse to couple with her black pencil skirt and black heels, pausing in the bathroom to smooth her hair and brush her teeth. 

“You fool,” Sansa muttered through the bristles at her reflection, foam coating her lips. “Late? Ugh!” She hissed in disgust before spitting out the toothpaste and running out the door.

Sansa wove her way through the bustling crowds of King’s Landing, skirting around the edges of the crowd and avoiding flying elbows. The Starbucks sign eventually emerged in the distance, and Sansa huffed in relief, picking up the pace.

Arriving at the coffee shop, Sansa’s legs stuttered to a stop at the sight of the menacingly long line of customers. Dread curled in her stomach. Late was not an option, she knew this. Unfortunately, neither was showing up with no coffee in hand. 

Just as Sansa stepped to place herself in the agonizingly long line, a hand shot into the air. “Sansa!” The regular barista, Satin, waved in her direction, ushering her forward. A beautiful stroke of luck.

Sansa tiptoed around the line and threw an apologetic glance toward the customers who groaned and muttered under their breath at her cutting the line. As she approached the counter, Satin’s smile grew wider. “I figured you were running late,” he said to her as he stretched his arms to hand her two white cups of coffee. 

“Satin,” she huffed, shooting him her most disarmingly charming smile, “You are a lifesaver. Literally.” Shifting the cups so she could hold both in one hand, Sansa turned on her heel and lifted her free hand to wave goodbye before darting out the glass doors and jogging through the traffic to her office across the street. 

The Night’s Watch lobby was filled with a torrent of people, busy for a Friday morning. Pushing her way through bystanders, she set her sights on the slowly closing elevator doors and booked it. 

Just managing to slip in, Sansa mumbled an apology to the people already on the elevator. “Everyone good?” Sansa asked the man beside her, whom she accidentally shoved on her wild quest to the elevator. Sansa awkwardly adjusted the purse on her shoulder as the man hummed noncommittally in response. “Good. Me too,” she said, then turned her gaze to where the floor numbers were displayed and willed it to go faster.

Sansa had started working at The Night’s Watch publishing company straight out of college as an assistant to editor-in-chief Jon Snow, famed in the publishing world for his talent and precision. The idea of being in his presence every day, learning the ins and outs of publishing at his right hand, had thrilled her.

Jon squashed her enthusiasm quickly and efficiently. Now, three years later, she was still grabbing his coffee.

The elevator doors finally opened, and she immediately noticed with a wave of relief that Jon was not in his office yet. She had made it. Sansa stepped out of the elevator to head that way when her world suddenly became increasingly imbalanced and scalding hot coffee flowed down the front of her shirt.

“Oh no, oh God, oh I’m so sorry,” the new intern who had just ran headfirst into her stammered out, waving his hands uselessly in front of her now-ruined shirt. Sansa did not even care about that and was rather looking at the empty coffee cup on the ground with the delicately cursive-written word ‘Jon’ on it.

“Seven hells,” she shouted, turning to the intern in a blind rage before stopping and reminding herself she had managed to keep hold of the paper cup in her hands. “Clean this up,” she hissed at the new intern, before pacing over to Myrcella’s cubicle in the large top-floor layout. 

Myrcella was already waiting. “That’s shit luck, babe,” she told Sansa with a snicker, lounging back on her chair and toying with a ball of rubber bands. Even when she was being a prick, she still managed to look prim and proper.

Sansa chose not to acknowledge her comment and rather said, “I need your shirt.”

Myrcella’s eyes widened and glanced down at her own flowered mint green button up before raising her eyes up to Sansa’s own ruined flowy blouse. “No way.”

“Cella, please, I’m serious, two tickets to the Knights game this Saturday. Give me your shirt and they’re yours,” Sansa begged her friend. After another beat of incredulous staring from Myrcella, Sansa sighed. “Myrcella, I’m serious. Give me your shirt.”

**

Jon’s phone rang just as he was locking the door to his apartment. He glanced at the words scrawling on the screen, Daenerys, and smirked before answering the call. “Dany, how’s my favorite writer?” He chirped brightly at her while pocketing his keys and heading for the front doors of the apartment complex.

Daenerys’ voice buzzed in Jon’s ear. “Not very well,” she grumbled at him. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what you told me yesterday.”

“Of course you have, Dany,” he responded. “That’s because you are an excellent writer and I am the excellent editor who is going to continue to sell your books at a fantastic rate. It’s because you know I’m right.”

Daenerys Targaryen had been a key writer at The Night’s Watch for years, ever since her first novel, Through the Fire, had been published and shot off the bookshelves nationwide. She let her success ride the steam of the first book and molded it into an internationally acclaimed series. However, Daenerys was as inclined to being around people as the dragon’s in her novels were. Jon, thank the gods, was an exception to the rule.

“Being on the Tyrell Show is absolutely not something I want to subject myself to, Jon,” she hissed. “I haven’t had any sort of press for my books in years, why should I start now?”

Jon sighed at his favorite fickle author’s dramatic tendencies. “Olenna loves you, Dany, you know that. She will not ask you any questions you are not comfortable with. Olenna is the perfect person to tell the people of Westeros, ‘Hey, don’t watch television tonight. Read a book. Read the new Targaryen book!’”

“I don’t need Olenna Tyrell to tell my fans to read my book. They love me for my dragons, not because someone tells them to love me,” she reminded him heatedly.

“Every great writer does publicity, Daenerys,” Jon responded, pulling open the doors to The Night’s Watch and heading for the elevators. “Don’t you want that Pulitzer?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line as Jon stepped through the opening doors and glared icily at the woman who bumped into his shoulder on her way in. She shuffled back, mumbling an apology, as Dany finally sighed on the other end. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re brilliant, Dany!” Jon said, infusing cheerfulness into his tone. He needed her to know how good this was. “I’ll send you the details later,” He promised her, then hung up before she could change her mind.

The elevator doors opened. Jon scrolled through emails on his phone while walking toward his office, blatantly ignoring the scrambling of his employees all around him, making themselves look busy as they did every morning upon his arrival in the office. Breaking through the cluster of cubicles, Jon reached his glass office doors and pulled them open.

“Morning, Mr. Snow,” his assistant, Sansa Stark, greeted cheerfully. She held out his coffee, the same order in a white cup that he received every morning. He took it from her absentmindedly, focus still on the phone is his hands. She continued speaking as he headed for his desk, reminding him of his meetings and calls for the day. He chose not to respond to any of the reminders, already knowing everything on today’s agenda. He never walked into his office without already having his whole day planned out.

“Did you call, uh, that one gal? The one with the bad breath?” Jon asked her, interrupting Sansa’s ongoing list.

“Sally? Yes. I reminded her to get into contact with her lawyer and make sure everything is submitted on time,” Sansa responded evenly. “Also, your immigration lawyer called; he would like to speak to you. It sounded urgent.”

Jon furrowed his brows, taking a sip of his coffee and moving a manuscript to the corner of his desk to set the cup on the protective screen in the center. “Cancel my conference call for this morning, leave a note about the lawyer, and visit PR to tell them to get a press release ready. Daenerys is doing The Tyrell Show.” Jon swiveled in his chair toward Sansa, a smirk on his lips, as her eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Wow,” she breathed, turning away toward a pad of sticky notes on her desk. Jon’s eyes caught on the light reflecting off her striking orange hair, then was pulled back to her face as she continued. “Well done, Mr. Snow.”

Jon pursed his lips at the words. Sansa had been with him for years, and she was a quietly intelligent sort. Swiveling back toward his desktop, he responded, “If I want your praise, I will ask for it, Miss Stark.” Sansa did not respond, heading for the double glass doors to head to the PR office. Picking up his coffee cup once again, Jon was distracted by the black writing scribbled on the side. “Sansa?”

Sansa froze in her tracks, turning slowly to look back at Jon. “Yes, Mr. Snow?”

“Who is Satin?” He asked her, pulling his eyes away from his coffee and holding the drink higher so she could see. Sansa’s eyes widened. “And why does he want me to call him?”

Jon watched Sansa glance down at the phone number hastily written on the cup before letting out a huff of nervous laughter. “Well, sir, that was actually originally my cup,” she told him.

He stared back at her, unperturbed. “And I’m drinking your coffee, why?”

“Because your coffee spilled.”

Jon admired her honesty. He did not dare clue her in on that. He turned back to the cup and took another drink, slowly this time. Black coffee, double shot of espresso, one packet of sweetener. Same as always. “So, you drink black coffee with extra espresso?” He asked her, hardly believing a woman like Sansa would not much prefer some frilly dessert of a drink.

Sansa replied without hesitation. “I do.” She glanced around the room, as if contemplating her next words, then continued, “I’m needing to grow some hair on my chest. This helps the process along.”

He willed himself not to laugh. “So it’s a coincidence, then?”

She nodded. “It is.” The phone in her office started to ring, and Sansa moved to pick it up, still speaking. “I absolutely would not order the same coffee you do in a daily preparation for this exact instance in which your coffee spilled. Because that, of course, would be embarrassingly pathetic,” Sansa gritted out, then briskly answered the phone, leaving Jon to grin into Sansa’s coffee.

“Good morning, Mr. Snow’s office.” There was a pause, then Sansa continued. “Hello, Alliser.” Jon made a motion with his hand, and Sansa’s brows furrowed before continuing, “Actually, we’re headed to you right now. Yep. See you in a minute.” Sansa hung up the phone and looked back at Jon. “Why are we going to see Alliser?”

Jon clicked his tongue, giving Sansa a meaningful look. Understanding flooded Sansa’s eyes and she nodded at him before leaving his office abruptly. It was no secret that Jon and Alliser Thorne, another editor at The Night’s Watch, did not necessarily get along. Jon would be much more tolerant of the man if he at least pretended to do his job correctly.

Jon slowly rose from his chair to head to Alliser’s office. There were many necessary evils in this job when it came to crushing people’s dreams. This, at least, would be a necessary evil he would enjoy doing. As he started walking down the hallway, Sansa appeared next to him again, coming out from her cubicle. “Have you read the manuscript I gave you?” She asked, breathless.

Jon hummed, thinking back to the manuscript he received from her. Something about ice monsters beyond the wall. “I read a few pages. Nothing special.” 

He sensed Sansa tense up at his comment. “Can I say something?”

“No.”

Sansa continued anyway, unbothered. “I’ve read hundreds of manuscripts, Mr. Snow. This is the only one I have ever asked you to read. It’s an amazing novel if you would just give it a change. It’s exactly the kind of thing you used to publish all the time.”

They passed Myrcella Baratheon, whose lavender shirt was stained with coffee. The girl noticed Jon’s eyes on her and awkwardly crossed her arms in front of her chest, using the bundle of papers in her hands as a shield. “Wrong,” Jon responded. “Also, I do think you order the same coffee as I do just in case you spill. Which is, in fact, pathetic.” 

Sansa glanced at Myrcella’s shirt and turned a delicate shade of red before turning back to him and saying, “Or it’s impressive.”

Jon fought another smile. Such a sharp tongue. “I’d be more impressed if the coffee hadn’t spilled in the first place.” They came to a stop at the door at the end of the hallway, a bronze plaque reading out Alliser Thorne, Editor attached to the wall. “Now remember, you’re just a prop in here,” he reminded Sansa.

“I won’t say a word,” She mumbled in resignation.

**

Sansa followed Jon into Alliser’s office, seething in a quiet rage. Such an arrogant, pompous man. He could not even bother reading one measly manuscript? Surely, she had earned some semblance of credibility after working here for three years.

“Ah! Our fearless leader and his liege,” Alliser bellowed as they walked in, doing a poor job at containing his sarcasm. Sansa stared at the ragged-looking man for a beat before shifting her eyes to the window to admire the King’s Landing skyline. However much of a vindictive bastard Alliser sometimes was, she could not help the pang of pity that ran through her. Poor guy had no idea what was coming.

Jon glanced around the office, firm grasp on his coffee. He locked onto a large, antique cabinet in the corner of his office. “Nice cabinet,” Jon commented offhandedly. “Is it new?”

Alliser did not look up from his computer. “Built in the 1800s in in Essos, but yes,” his eyes did not rise to catch Jon circle the piece of furniture, looking at it from every angle. “It is new to my office.”

Sansa turned to look at Jon, whose face was a mask she recognized well. “Witty,” Jon muttered, still observing the cabinet. A frilly explanation. Jon hated frilly explanations. He turned back to Alliser and, clearly not wanting to continue the conversation further, abruptly said, “Alliser, I’m letting you go.”

Sansa tensed, eyes widening in shock. By the gods, letting him go? Sansa had expected some sort of public reprimand, but firing him? Alliser had been an editor at The Night’s Watch since before Jon had graduated from college. Alliser whipped his head up to look at Jon, and Sansa turned on her heel, staring at the wall and wishing she were anywhere else.

“Excuse me?” Alliser said incredulously.

Jon did not blink. “I asked you countless times to get Daenerys to go on The Tyrell Show, and you didn’t do it. One simple task was assigned to you, and you took it upon yourself to ignore my authority. You’re fired.” 

Sansa shuffled over to the open door to swing it shut while glancing out to see if anyone had overheard the conversation, trying to be as subtle as possible.

Alliser took his glasses off and waved them around as he spoke. “Daenerys has not agreed to an interview since her first novel. It’s not going to happen.” 

“Well that is interesting,” Jon said in a way that made it seem as if he absolutely did not find it interesting. “Because I just got off the phone with her and she’s in.”

The office was silent for a moment as the two stared at each other. Sansa’s empty hands fidgeted in the air. She desperately wished she had not spilled her coffee this morning.

“You didn’t even call her, did you?” Jon questioned condescendingly, tilting his head at the older man.

“But…” Alliser glanced at Sansa, making a silent plea for help. Sansa physically turned her body away from him as Jon leisurely made his way closer to the man’s desk.

“I know, Alliser. Daenerys can be a little scary to deal with. For you, at least.” He sighed before continuing, “I will give you two months to find another job, and I will allow you to tell everyone that you resigned due to interests in another company. Okay?”

Jon nodded firmly at Alliser before turning around and leaving as confidently as he came in. Sansa took one last look at Alliser, frozen in shock behind his desk, before scurrying out behind Jon, shutting the door behind her.

“What’s he doing?” Jon asked her without turning around, already anticipating an oncoming outburst.

Sansa looked over her shoulder to the glass walls where she could see Alliser pacing angrily around his office, coming nearer to the door with every lap. “He’s moving. He’s got crazy eyes,” she narrated for him.

“Don’t do it, Thorne,” Jon muttered, just as Alliser ripped open his door and stormed down the hall at him.

Suddenly the entire floor was filled with Alliser’s bellowing voice. “You pompous bastard!” Sansa was momentarily distracted by the colorful descriptors, noting they were the same words she had used to describe him minutes ago. It was much more unsettling hearing them come out of Thorne’s mouth. “You can’t fire me!”

The gasps throughout the building were audible. Jon slowly turned back to face Alliser, his mask firmly in place. Sansa quickly removed herself from the line of fire, settling in an empty cubicle to watch the show. If she knew Jon at all, she knew this would not end well for Thorne.

“You don’t think I know what you’re doing?” Thorne continued to shout at Jon, his face rapidly turning red. “Coming in here and grilling me about The Tyrell Show just so you can look good to the board? It’s because you are threatened by me!”

Even with the amount of conviction Alliser spoke the words, Sansa could not help but let out a quiet laugh. The idea of Jon Snow being threatened by anyone was humorous. Judging by the smirk on Jon’s face, he thought it as well.

“You are a monster!” Thorne screamed, stabbing a fat finger toward Jon. He continued to stare back silently, seemingly unaffected by the insults being hurled his way. “You have no semblance of a life outside of this office, so you come here and think you can treat all of us like your own personal slaves!” Jon let out a humorless laugh at that, but Thorne pushed on. “In fact, I feel sorry for you. Because you know what you’re going to have when the God of Death takes you? Nothing and no one.”

Silence settled upon the floor as Alliser’s little power trip of a speech came to an end. Sansa chewed her lip as Jon approached Thorne calmly, still holding the cup of coffee with Satin’s phone number scrawled on it.

“Mr. Thorne,” Jon began quietly, his voice smooth as silk. “I did not fire you because I feel threatened. I promise you that. No, I fired you because you are lazy, entitled, incompetent, and you spend more time focused on other’s opinions of you than you do on your work. And if you say another word, Sansa here is going to call security who will happily escort you out of the building.” Sansa jumped slightly at the mention of her name. 

Alliser took a breath, but Jon interrupted him viciously, ice frosting his words. “Another word, Alliser, and you are going out of here with an armed escort. Is that what you want?” Finally wising up, Alliser stayed silent, glaring vehemently at the dark-haired man. “Didn’t think so. Now, I have work to do,” Jon finished, and turned to leave to his own office as calmly as he had come.

The end of the conversation caused a ripple effect across the floor, murmurs bubbling up all around Sansa. She hastily followed Jon’s footsteps, idling up beside him. “Have security take that cabinet out of his office and put it in mine,” Jon instructed quietly.

Sansa bit back any protest and agreed. Jon continued, “I need you around this weekend to assist me in going over his paperwork and manuscripts.”

Sansa stopped in her tracks. Oh Gods, her parents were going to disown her. “Uh, Mr. Snow, I actually –”

Jon halted as well, turning to look at her with the same frosty mask he had given Alliser. “Is there a problem, Miss Stark?”

She counted to three in her head before responding, reminding herself what a waste it would be to lose this job over one weekend of canceled plans. “No, I just … it’s my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday and I was planning on heading home to celebrate, but I’ll just cancel it.” Jon was already walking away from her, seemingly satisfied that she would be present this weekend. “You’re actually saving me a weekend of misery anyway!” She called out to his back. “So … good talk, yeah.” Sansa ducked her head in resignation and headed to her cubicle to call her parents. Hopefully, they’d be out and about. She’d much prefer to talk to the answering machine.

**

After getting caught up with his emails, Jon rose from his desk and stretched his arms above his head before heading toward Sansa’s cubicle.

Sansa was hunched over her work phone at her desk, rubbing her forehead with one hand and holding the phone to her ear with the other. He slowed his approach, picking up pieces of the conversation, Sansa unaware of his presence.

“I know, I know, Dad. Tell Nan I’m so sorry, okay?” Sansa paused, listening to the speaker – her Dad, apparently – on the other end of the call. She sighed in frustration. “Dad, what do you want me to tell you? He’s making me work the weekend.” Another pause, and she continued. “No, no. I am not, no! Listen, Dad, I’ve worked way too hard for this promotion to throw it all away, okay?” 

Situations like this made Jon grateful for his lack of family drama. Growing bored of eavesdropping, he made his way toward the cubicle. 

Sansa continued speaking. “I’m sure that Mom is pissed!” She moved her hand away from her forehead and appeared to see Jon approaching out of the corner of her eye. “But we take all of our submissions around here very seriously. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” Sansa ended the call in a flourish, hanging up the phone and swiveling to face Jon.

“That your family?” He asked her, already knowing the answer.

“Yep,” she didn’t even attempt to deny it. Jon bit back another grin. Always so sharp with the honesty.

“They tell you to quit?” He continued, highly suspecting what her answer would be. Jon knew next to nothing about the woman, but she’d been working in King’s Landing as an assistant to editor-in-chief for years, and she was being held back for the weekend to unwillingly help out her boss. Jon could only imagine what Sansa’s family thought of him. Hells, he could only imagine what Sansa had told his family about him.

Sansa did not hesitate in her answer. “Every single day.” Her phone rang again, and she answered it swiftly. “Mr. Snow’s office. Yep. Yeah, okay. Bye.” She hung up and faced him again, saying, “Mormont and Aemon want to see you upstairs immediately.”

Jon bit back a groan. “Okay. Come get me in ten minutes; we’ve got a lot of work to do today,” he told Sansa, before walking toward the elevators and selecting the button for the top floor.

Jeor Mormont, CEO of The Night’s Watch, had been the one to hire Jon right out of college. Jon had been an intern at the company throughout college, and Mormont said he had admired his work ethic and honesty. Aemon Targaryen, Mormont’s trusted advisor, had also supported Mormont’s hiring decision. They both loved Jon, and why would they not? He brought in thousands in revenue for the company, proving their decision to hire him a good one.

Stepping off the elevator, he passed the receptionist, not acknowledging her “Good morning, Mr. Snow,” and opened the wooden oak doors to Mormont’s office. He greeted the men as he shut the door behind him. “Jeor, Aemon. Morning.”

Mormont smiled fondly at him. “Jon. Congratulations on The Tyrell Show,” he told her. 

Behind him, Aemon smiled coyly, his leathered skin wrinkling around his lips. “My dear niece is a stubborn soul, but you have a special connection with her,” he told Jon. Aemon and Daenerys were distantly related, and Jon knew Aemon had only met the woman a few times, but the old man still held a tender place in his heart for her. “She listens to you.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Jon nodded his head in acknowledgment and both older men, letting himself smile slightly. These were men he had always admired, and any sort of praise from them filled Jon with a rare rush of contentedness. “So, what’s this about?” He questioned, anxious to get back downstairs and to work.

They both paused, glancing at each other cautiously, before Mormont answered him. “Jon, do you remember when we agreed that you wouldn’t go to the Free Folk Book Fair because you weren’t allowed out of the country while your visa application was being processed?”

Jon fought back an eye roll. “Yes, I remember.”

“And … you went anyway.” Mormont confirmed, leaning toward in his chair to look Jon more squarely in the eyes.

“Yes, I did. We were going to lose Tormund to the publishing house up there. I couldn’t let that happen,” he told the man, waving his hand in a what can you do gesture.

Mormont pursed his lips at him before saying, “Well, it seems the Westerosi government doesn’t care too much about who publishes Tormund Giantsbane.”

Jon stared back at him, nonplussed. Aemon continued, “We spoke to your immigration attorney.”

“Great,” Jon said. He felt a wave of relief that they had dealt with the headache that was his lawyer, glad to escape the complicated entanglement of his visa stipulations this time around. “So, we’re all good? Everything’s good here?”

“Jon, your visa application has been denied.” Mormont told him flatly, and Jon felt his face fall in disbelief. “You are being deported.”

“Deported?” Jon repeated, sounding out the word as if it weren’t real. 

“Apparently there was also some paperwork that you were told to fill out that was not submitted,” Mormont continued, looking away from Jon and down to the papers on his desk.

“Come on,” Jon ground out. “It’s not even like I’m an immigrant! Seven hells, I’m from Essos. There has to be something we can do about this,” he said desperately. 

Aemon raised his hands in resignation. “We can reapply, but unfortunately you have to leave the country for at least a year.”

Jon swayed, the words hitting him like a physical force, before rationalizing his thoughts and continuing. “Okay,” he dragged the word, deep in thought. “Okay, well, that’s not ideal, but I can manage from Essos. I can work from home with the internet, and I can get caught up through conference calls—”

Mormont cut him off. “Unfortunately, Jon, if you’re deported, you can’t work for a Westerosi company. Until this is resolved, I am going to turn everything over to Alliser Thorne.”

Jon barked out a laugh. “You mean Alliser Thorne, the guy I just fired?”

“We need an editor in chief,” Mormont told him. “Thorne is the only person in the building who has enough experience.”

Jon shook his head numbly. “You can not be serious. Jeor. I am begging you.”

“Jon,” Mormont said firmly. “We are desperate to have you stay. If there was any way at all that we could accomplish that, we would be doing it.”

Jon started to respond but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He turned to see Sansa’s bright red hair poking through the door, blue eyes meeting his. “Mr. Snow, sorry to interrupt.”

“Excuse me, we’re in a meeting,” Mormont told Sansa sharply.

Jon directed his attention to her, glaring. “What? What is it?”

“Tony from PR called, he’s on the line,” she told him, oblivious to the tension in the room. Like a good assistant, she was still following through with the plan of cutting the meeting short. “He needs to speak with you immediately. I told him you were otherwise engaged. She insisted, so.” Sansa trailed off.

Jon nodded throughout her explanation, anxious for her to stop talking to get her out of the room. His mind, however, latched onto one of her words. Jon turned toward Sansa, seeing her in a whole new light. This redheaded spitfire was going to be his saving grace.

“Uh,” Jon motioned Sansa into the room, who was still standing frozen in the doorway. Confused, she shut the door behind her and stood stonily by the entrance to the office. Jon turned back to the men before him. “Gentlemen, I understand the predicament we are in. And...” Jon glanced over at Sansa again, willing her to go along with his plan. She stared out the window, oblivious. “And there’s, well, I think there’s something you should know.”

Jon paced back cautiously to stand by Sansa’s side. Awkwardly placing his arm around Sansa’s shoulders, he said firmly, “We’re getting married.”

Sansa’s shoulders tensed, looking at his hand resting on her arm before turning back to him. “Who is getting married?” she asked, confusion slowing the words like molasses.

“We are,” he answered, pasting a grin on his face and smiling toothily at her, shooting a meaningful look at the men seated in front of them. Sansa looked mildly alarmed at the action. “You and I are getting married.”

Jon watched carefully as Sansa’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly. Finally, voice trembling, she hesitantly said, “We are. Getting married.”

They both looked to Mormont and Aemon, who were watching the exchange wordlessly. Finally, Aemon pointed at the two of them and said, “Isn’t she your secretary?”

“Assistant,” Sansa corrected absently, without much force behind the words.

“Executive, uh, assistant secretary,” Jon followed up. He gritted his teeth in frustration at himself. Frilly explanations. He hated frilly explanations. “Titles,” he laughed, waving his hand in the air. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of us fell for our secretaries, right, Mormont?” He said to his boss, regretting the words as they came out of his mouth. Jeor had married his former secretary years ago, which had caused a minor scandal in the company. Aemon looked at them both in amusement, humming in acknowledgment.

“Anyway,” Jon continued, thinking fast. “Aye. The truth is, you know, Sansa and I, we are just two people who weren’t meant to fall in love, but we did.”

Sansa was shaking her head repeatedly, seemingly dazed. “No,” she confirmed.

Jon plowed on, committed to selling the lie. “All those late nights at the office and weekend book fairs. Something happened.”

“Something,” Sansa murmured, still dazed.

He laughed, hysteria coloring the edges of the sound. “Aye. We tried to fight it, but…” He moved to put his arm around her shoulders once again, and Sansa hesitantly slipped her fingers into his suit jacket. He felt her nails digging into his hip as he said, “But you can’t fight a love like ours. So, uh, are we good with this? Are you happy?” He looked at the men once again, a silent plea in his eyes. “Because we’re happy. So, so happy.”

“Jon,” Mormont sighed. “It’s terrific. Just make it legal, hm?” He held up his hand and wiggled his ring finger.

“Oh!” Jon laughed. “Legal. Yes, of course. Then that means that we need to get ourselves to the immigration office hm?” He shot a look at Sansa, who had a half smile, half grimace on her face, her nails digging more into his side with every passing moment. “Thank you very much, gentlemen. We will do that right away.” 

He started backing toward the door, taking hold of Sansa by the arm and gently guiding her with him. “Gentlemen,” she said absently to Mormont and Aemon, before obediently following him out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii! It's been a hot minute.
> 
> Thank you SO much for the response to the first chapter; I was so excited to write a story like this, and you all being excited with me gives me that much more motivation to write it. I also want to thank the constructive criticism on writing in the ASOIAF world, as I know there's a lot I'm not familiar enough with.
> 
> This chapter is short and sweet, setting us up for the ride to Winterfell and the meeting of the Starks. I hope you enjoy!

Jon kept a firm grip on Sansa’s elbow as he ushered them through the hallway and toward the doors of his office. All around him, his coworkers were muttering in disbelief. “Sansa and Jon?” “No way. Can’t be.” “That lucky bastard.” As they passed Myrcella Baratheon’s cubicle, he heard the girl mutter to Sansa, “For real? Him?” He glanced over at Sansa, who was taking all the whispers in with wide-eyed panic. Pursing his lips, he quickened their steps.

He met the doors in relief, shutting the glass on the torrent of words hissing through the air outside of his office. He sat down in his chair, sorting through the pile of bundled paperwork on his desk with a sigh of relief. Back to work, the one thing that always made sense. Slipping the paperclip off the bundle, he flipped to the first page of the manuscript, leaning back into his chair. After a beat of heavy silence, Jon became aware of a pair of eyes on him. He glanced over at Sansa, who stood frozen in front of his desk, lips pursed, brow furrowed, eyes intent on his movements. “Yes?” He questioned.

Sansa shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I guess I’m just wondering what the hell is going on,” she responded pleasantly, hands folded in front of her.

Jon sighed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just as much for your benefit as it is mine,” he responded, focusing back on the papers in front of him.

“How so?” 

He glanced back up. “They were going to put Alliser in charge. I couldn’t let it happen.”

She nodded in understanding. “So naturally, I have to marry you.”

Jon scoffed. “Like you were saving yourself for anyone else?” Her face contorted, and he immediately regretted the words. “Look,” he continued. “We just have to go along with this charade for however long it takes me to get my visa back in order. Then I am out of your hair and you’re back to just being my assistant, okay?” Sansa stared wordlessly at him; lips still pursed at him in a way that made him fidget in his seat. “We’ll go to the immigration office today after work and figure it all out. Okay?” Jon prompted. She nodded once at him and turned on her heel, disappearing in her cubicle for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Sansa sat primly in the thinly cushioned seat in the office on the third floor of the immigration office they were ushered into shortly after they arrived in the building, Jon’s rough demeanor hurrying the usually tedious process along. She spared a glance toward Jon, who was leaning against the door impatiently, filtering through emails on his phone. She had hardly said a thing to him since this afternoon, finding herself at a loss for words toward the cantankerous man. She was still trying to figure out how she had gotten herself into the current situation.

Her bum was only just starting to numb when the door to the office finally opened, startling Jon away from the door and toward her. The scent of ash and leather drifted toward her as he shifted, his hand coming to rest on the back of Sansa’s chair as the INS agent entered the room. 

Sansa appraised the man in front of her. He was wiry, though not particularly tall, with a weaselly look to him. His smile seemed to slink onto his face as he greeted them, holding his hand out to Jon for a handshake. “Peter Baelish, nice to meet you both,” he said in greeting. Jon smiled back stiffly, shaking his hand firmly before settling in the chair next to hers. 

Sansa met Baelish’s proffered hand, skin crawling without explanation as they came in contact. His gaze on her was unsettling as she introduced herself. “Sansa Stark,” she murmured, feeling foolish for the tremor in her voice. 

She glanced over to Jon and found his eyes already on her, brow slightly furrowed. Jon looked back at her and Baelish’s still grasped hands and reached his own hand over to rest on Sansa’s other arm. “My fiancé,” Jon’s voice rumbled, a note of warning in his tone. Baelish let go of her hand with a smirk.

“So the story goes,” he said coolly, glancing between the two of them. “So, you two are engaged?” He directed the question toward Sansa. She nodded in confirmation, not trusting her voice. Baelish gave a tight-lipped grin at that before continuing, “I understand you two work together?”

“We do,” Jon confirmed. “She’s my assistant.”

Baelish hummed in response. “Strange, that. I’ve talked to quite a few of your fellow coworkers, and every one of them tell me that they had no idea you two were seeing each other, let alone engaged.” Sansa shot a panicked look toward Jon as Baelish continued. “In fact, correct me if I’m wrong, but you two didn’t announce your ‘engagement’ until Jon was told that he was being deported.”

The room filled with silence. Sansa did not dare look over at Jon again, lest she give something away. Baelish, seeming to sense her anxiety, turned his attention fully toward her. “Miss Stark, I would like to remind you that marriage fraud is a federal crime here in Westeros. If the immigration office finds that your engagement to Mr. Snow is a farce, you could be facing five years in prison and a fine of up to $250,000.” His eyes stayed steadily on Sansa’s face, where she felt a thin sheen of perspiration building. “So, let me ask you again, Miss Stark: are you and Jon Snow engaged?”

Sansa stared wide-eyed at the wormy man in front of her, mind racing. She worked through the logic of the plan and struggled to find any at all. What was she gaining from this? With everything she had to lose, how would this be worth it for her?

Straightening her spine, she turned toward Baelish with false confidence. “The truth is, Mr. Baelish…” Sansa’s eyes met Jon’s, finding a desperate panic that she had never seen in him before. Taking a deep breath, Sansa’s mind settled on her decision. “The truth is … Jon and I … we’re just two people who were never meant to fall in love. But we did,” she sighed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tension melt off Jon. Not for long, she thought viciously. “The reason no one at work knew is because we thought it best to keep it to ourselves, what with my promotion to editor coming up.”

Jon’s head whipped over her. “Editor?” he ground out, a vicious curve playing at his lips. Sansa smiled innocently at her boss, humming in acknowledgement. 

Baelish watched the interaction, clearly unimpressed. “Promotion,” he repeated to himself lowly, before resuming. “So, have the two of you told your families about your secret love?” He questioned sardonically.

They both started shaking their heads. “Uh, no,” Jon answered. “That’s impossible, my parents are dead,” he said with a light laugh. Sansa’s heart tugged at the news, imagining such an empty life. “No siblings either,” he continued, a strange smile on his face, as though this was a familiar script for him. 

Baelish let out a light laugh at Jon’s response, leaning back in his chair and nodding in slight disbelief. He gestured to Sansa, “What, are your parents dead, too?”

Sansa chuckled uncomfortably as Jon said, “Oh, no, her parents are very much alive! We … we were actually going to tell them this weekend.” At his words, a swoop of dread slithered through Sansa’s entire body. She watched Jon in wide-eyed horror as he continued, “Nan’s ninetieth birthday; the entire family is coming together and celebrating.” He looked over at Sansa as he concluded, “We thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“And where is this surprise taking place?” Baelish asked, looking between the two of them skeptically.

“Sansa’s parent’s house, of course.” Jon said confidently.

Baelish nodded, leaning toward them in interest. “And where is that located again?”

Jon looked over at her imploringly. Finding her voice, she turned to Baelish and, with a smile, said, “Winterfell.”

Jon nodded. “Winterfell,” he confirmed.

“Of the North,” Sansa finished.

“The North?” Jon repeated, an incredulous lilt to his tone, forgetting himself for a moment.

Baelish let out a laugh. “You two are flying to the North this weekend?” He clarified, disbelief coloring his voice. 

Sansa nodded her head, watching Jon slowly do the same. “Yes, we’re going to the North,” Jon said, finding his confidence in the situation once again. “That’s where my Sansa is from.” The hand that came to rest on Sansa’s arm was warm and heavy, the feel of his fingers curling around her wrist pleasantly surprising. One look at Jon told her how awkward it was for him to do so. She hesitantly reached her other hand to place it over Jon’s, but he snatched it back before she could do so. Looking up to meet Baelish’s watchful gaze, she smiled timidly.

After a long moment, Baelish huffed and closed the folder in front of him hastily. “Fine,” he said. “I can see how this is going to be.” He reached for his calendar and, after one last glance at them both, told them, “I will see you both Monday morning for your scheduled interview.” He stood up and headed to open the door for them before adding, “And your answers better match up on every account.” 

Jon nodded to him on the way out the door. “Looking forward to it,” he told the man, placing his hand on Sansa’s back as he guided her through the door and away from Baelish’s hands. 

Baelish chuckled grimly. “Oh, I am as well. It will be fun.” As they walked away, Baelish called out toward their retreating backs, “I’ll be checking up on you!” Jon gave a perfunctory wave in acknowledgement. Sansa did not look back.

***

The walk out of the immigration office and onto the street was an excruciatingly silent one. Jon could not bring himself to look over at Sansa, having enough wits about him to know that he just invited himself into her and her family’s lives for the weekend. This would not go over quietly, he knew.

As they exited the doors of the building, Sansa was still silent. Taking a breath, Jon centered himself before laying out the plan for the weekend. “Okay, so what’s going to happen is we will fly out to your parent’s house this weekend, convince them we are a couple, then come back and sort this all out.” Sansa did not seem to be paying much attention, looking up at the skyline and walking in a rather unsteady fashion. Jon continued, “You can use my card to book the flights, and I suppose we can fly first class, but please make sure to get to get the miles, because if we don’t get the miles there’s not much point in flying. Also, you will want to make sure to tell the airline … Sansa, are you even listening?”

She turned toward him then, the rage in her eyes as fiery as her hair. “I’m sorry, were you not in that room?” she hissed at him, pointing her finger accusingly.

Jon blinked. “You mean what you said about being promoted?” he nodded. “Yeah, that was a great idea, good excuse for why–” 

Sansa cut him off. “I was serious. I am looking at a $250,000 fine and five years in prison, Jon. That changes things. This isn’t just the short term, smooth and breezy plan you were giving me this morning.”

Jon laughed lightly, taking his phone out of his pocket at the chime of a message coming in and looking at it. “Promote you to editor?” He asked, skimming over the frantic text message from Dany, second guessing her appearance on the Tyrell Show. “No way.”

“Fine,” he heard Sansa say, steel in her voice. “Then I quit, and you’re screwed.” Jon looked up to see Sansa walking away from him purposefully, calling back, “Bye, Jon. It sure has been fun.”

Jon shoved his phone back into his pocked and followed her. “No wait, Sansa. Sansa!” She did not slow. Stubborn girl. Gritting his teeth, he spit out. “Fine! Fine, I’ll make you editor. If you do the weekend in the North and the immigration interview, I will make you editor,” he promised her.

Sansa turned back at that, a serene smile painting her lips. “And not in two years: right away.” Jon nodded once, lips pursed. “And you’ll also publish my manuscript,” she told him in that same confident, no-nonsense way she had.

Jon stared hard at her. Truth be told, he had only ever read the summary of Sansa’s manuscript, mind drifting back to a thick pile of pages telling of a mad king and his son, who was engaged in an illicit affair with a forbidden love. “Fine.”

Sansa’s lips quirked briefly at the win before resuming her pitch. “We’re going to tell my family when I want and how I want. And if you think it is only my parents you have to worry about, you are sorely mistaken.” Jon could hardly process that comment before she said, “Now. Ask me nicely.”

“Ask you nicely, what?” he responded warily.

She tilted her head back, jawline hard. “Ask me nicely to marry you, Jon Snow.”

His eyebrows went up in disbelief. “What does that even mean?”

“You heard me.” She gestured at the ground in front of her. “On your knee.”

Jon glanced around at their current surroundings. King’s Landing was bustling from five o’clock traffic, cityfolk coming and going from work and class or heading out for a bite to eat. He looked back at Sansa, who had not seemed to lessen her resolve. Gritting his teeth once more, he went down on one knee in front of his fiery assistant, took her hand in his, and did what he had to do.

“Sansa Stark,” he started, his voice low and gravelly with conflicting emotion. “My sweet, sweet Sansa.”

One quick look around told him they were drawing a crowd, pedestrian traffic coming to a pause at the show they were putting on in the center of the square. Sansa smiled at him. “Yes, Jon?”

Jon’s eyes focused back on her. The sun was on her face, the blue in her eyes stunningly bright in the setting light. “Would you please, in the eyes of the Old Gods and the New, do me the honor of marrying me and becoming my wife?” He pasted on a toothy grin at the end for extra effect.

Sansa’s brow arched at the performance and mulled it over for a moment before nodding briskly and pulling her hand away from his, back once again ramrod straight. “Okay,” she decided. “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, but I’ll do it.” Jon saw the puzzled expressions on the faces of the onlookers as she told him, “I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow morning.”

With that, she walked away and left Jon kneeling on the sidewalk, surrounded by the shocked and sympathetic glances from the people of King’s Landing.

By the Gods, what had Jon gotten himself into? A woman like Sansa was not one to be trifled with, he was quickly learning, and if he knew anything about the woman, this was only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to folklore the entire time I wrote this chapter. (Who can peep a song title?)
> 
> I was unsure of how to write part of the immigration office scene, so we're going with the idea that Winterfell is not a well known part of the North; in fact, the whole of the North is pretty mysterious to most non-Northerners. Just a big large chunk of chilly land.
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading! Please leave a kudos/comment and let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! For those who are very familiar with the movie as I am, I'm sure you saw a lot of recycled dialogue. As soon as we get our lovebirds out of the office, my creative freedom will start to expand and I'll be able to play with the plot a bit more.
> 
> Please leave a kudos/comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr: nowmywatch-begins


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